Goodnight
by Uriel Falcon
Summary: I can feel your eyes on me. ONESHOT, Sara Centric.


Disclaimer: I don't own CSI. This fiction is not related to anything else I have created thus far. This is all in Sara's POV.

I can feel your eyes on me.

If I couldn't, I would probably just continue to walk. But what's the point in walking to a destination that makes no sense in going to? I might as well stop, though I am a perfect target for you and should be worried, wouldn't you say?

Haha, that's what you think.

You think you're so good, hiding in that dark alley, thinking that you're king of the world, with your eyes so green and your hands that like to wrap themselves around people's throats who don't look like they deserve to grace your 'oh so wonderful' presence.

You're a god -in your own mind.

I would normally tell you what you're up against, but why ruin the fun of a game too large to understand? Let's just play, shall we? My move.

I turn down the alley, my heels clicking loudly against the pavement. The walls around me are brick, a single ladder on the side, leading above to the building -probably some cheap apartment building or a government project. But that's not the point, now is it?

The point is that I am walking down a dark alley, alone except for your presence. Which is probably worse than being alone, now isn't it? I should probably stop questioning you, you're getting nervous. You're wondering why I'm playing so easily into your trap, but your ego won't let you notice things. All you want is control of the situation. And believe me... You've got it.

Once again, you aren't noticing things. Like how I'm not wearing my perfume as usual, how my hair is in a bun instead of a ponytail, or how my footsteps are heavier than those of a normal woman walking. You don't notice the smell of rain beginning to must in the air, sign of a thunderstorm approaching. You don't notice your own perspiration dripping down the side of your neck. You are very stupid tonight, aren't you?

So I continue to walk, a slow and tantalizing pace to your impatient mind. You want to wring your hands around my neck so badly that you can already picture the bruising, the vision of life leaving my eyes, my flailing arms desperate to get away, my lungs grasping for air. But you're just going to have to wait, simply because it's still my turn.

I play a different move, leaning against the wall and lighting up a smoke. I'm surprised that you forget that I don't smoke, the four year long pact I rarely break. You're so ready to lunge, god, it's so fun to watch you writhe against your own common sense and wait. But perhaps that is only in my opinion. I bring the ghastly cigarette to my lips, signaling your turn. Come on, boy.

You begin moving forward, a blade in your hand, ready to threaten me. This wasn't part of your plan -you were supposed to surprise me from behind. But now the wall prevents that, allowing the match to become even in strength and advantages. You attempt to lunge at me, only to have a cigarette fly at your face. You dodge, and reach for my hair, a tactic you always would use against your pretty victims. You miss, as my hair is pulled too tightly to grasp.

You've wasted your turn. I swiftly kick at your chest, sending a shockwave of pain through you. Another thing you failed to notice... The sharp spike at the top of my boot, a tool I have now successfully lodged in your chest. You fall to the ground, clutching at the hole from which blood is seeping out of. You look up in shock. You're crushed at the fact that I am beginning the phases of ending your sick little game, the game that has taken the lives of 34 people.

You stand up, and decide to swing with the blade, aiming to slice a nice chunk off of me at any time and point. You take a nice chunk of my old, tattered leather jacket. Now that I think about it, I've had this damned jacket since I was 17. You lunge again, aiming for organs, but your plan is foiled as I throw my left arm across, knocking the knife to the side. Because of the close fighting range, your hand connects with the wall, and the knife tumbles to the ground and down a drainage grate.

Another turn wasted, sadly enough for you. I take this fraction of a second to send a right hand across your jaw. Oh, I love the sound of bone cracking late at night as you plummet to the ground, hitting your elbow on the concrete. I decide to play how you do, and I kick you while you're down. You crumble into the kick, feeling another spike move as it's left in the crevice of your chest. For a mass murderer, you're very frail. As we all are on the inside.

You roll away, and take off for the ladder. Your plan is foiled, and I've seen your face, so you must escape. I run after you, because this game is not over yet. You started the game, but I am now in control, and I will finish this game when I want to. You are almost up the ladder, but your injuries are slowing you down. I am catching up as we climb up onto the roof of the building.

You continue to run as fast as you can, but because you didn't take into account your own running shoes, you plummet to the ground, desperately scratching to get up. Your hands and knees hurt from hitting the ground so hard. I walk towards you slowly as you realize that you're in a no-way-out situation. Foolish little boy, you wasted another turn.

I watch as you crawl backwards into a corner, a lovely look of terror on your face. I pull out a gun from under my old black blazer, another thing that you as a violent murderer did not take into account. I point the .45 down at you, readying the trigger. I can see the tears beginning to bubble under your eyes. Are you remorseful of what you've done? Come now, little boy, let's see you cry.

Your turn. You decide that the only chance you have is to beg. I've never seen a man in his 30's cry so loudly that it mimicked a baby girl who's pricked her finger on something very sharp. I let out a loud laugh, causing you to whimper and cry much louder. You never cried for your victims, so why are you crying now? Selfish little boy. It's my turn now.

I stalk closer to you, grab you by the collar of your coat and throw you onto your stomach as hard as I can. Come on, you hear me say in the loudest voice I have, fess up, you're gonna die anyway. So you confess to the murders you've committed. You have a very good memory, names, dates, even the sound they made when they died. I let out a laugh, and my gun makes a clicking noise, increasing your screams.

Such a lovely sight, seeing someone who deserves to die a horrible death cry for what he's done, crying to a god that he doesn't believe in to spare him a bullet in the back of the head. Well, little boy, I'll have you know that god may have saved you from a bullet today, but he will judge you worse than I ever will. I grab your wrists, and cuff them. The final thing you never thought of... I was an officer of the law. A CSI, if you want to be politically correct. I read you your rights, and you whimper to knowing what they mean. My support team runs in, and I tear off the wire I was wearing. Once again, something you didn't notice.

Taking you in was easy enough. And now you sit here, on death row, and now you realize. I am the queen, I am the master, I am the god that saved you for one day. Now you face a real god as you approach the chair that will end you all and give peace to 34 families that have lost the ones they loved to someone who thought killing was a rush.

This was your life. And this is my testimony.

Goodnight.


End file.
